by K. M. Szpara
I tip my own candle over the safe, joined by the others. Together, the flames jump and dance, and I feel it again—whatever it is surrounding us. It could be magic, if not the way I’m used to.
“With pieces of ourselves, we bind you.” Kane drops his candle. Black wax stains his thumb and forefinger.
Zadie drops hers, then Maeve. Inside, the wooden paddle catches fire.
“With fire, we bind you.”
Deryn and Miller drop their candles. The flames catch the oiled rope, climbing the sides of the safe. The cards crinkle and blacken. I drop mine in, before the fire can escape. We take one another’s hands, pressing warm wax into the others’ palms.
“Leah Miller, we bind you,” Kane says, louder. “With these artifacts of our pain, we bind you.”
“With pieces of ourselves,” I say, joining him, “we bind you.”
All of us speak in unison as the flames rise. “With fire, we bind you.”
“Leah Miller, we bind you! With these artifacts of our pain—”
I gasp as the others go on. Catching my breath.
“With pieces of ourselves, we bind you!”
Kane and Miller squeeze my hands, hot and sweaty.
“With fire—”
I feel the flames as if they’re burning through my chest. Spreading.
“Leah Miller—”
A multitude of emotions surges through us—grief and love and anger and determination—as if we are all connected.
“—we bind you!”
The edges of the room blur.
“—pieces of ourselves, we—”
Zadie screams like I’ve only seen someone do while giving birth. She doubles over, not letting go, her words continuing as if she has two mouths. Tears stain Miller’s face as she chants through them.
“With fire, we bind you!”
“Leah Miller—”
I inhale as if the air is diving down my throat. Our words ringing in my ears.
“—we bind you!”
Kane breaks the circle and kicks the door of the safe closed, smothering the flames. He spins the dial. Looks up at me wide-eyed. I want to ask if he felt that—whatever it was. Not pain magic, but something different. I turn my hand over and examine my palm. A familiar itch tickles its center.
Together, silently, we wrap our robes around the safe and haul it outside to where Calvin and Lilian have dug a hole. We lower Nova deep into the earth and bury her memory, ready to face Leah Miller in court. To bind her.
I stuff my hands in my pockets and help clean up. Zadie and Maeve look fine. Miller, refreshed. I make me way to Deryn, who still stares at the ground where we buried the safe.
“Are you okay?” I ask quietly, helping them out of their robe.
They nod, looking at their hands. “I think so. But did you—? No.”
I purse my lips. Give them a knowing look. “Yes, I did.”
“What was that?” Their eyes light up—somewhere between wonder and terror. They exhale. A tremor of fear or excitement. I know that feeling.
“I’m not sure,” I mutter. “But don’t say anything to Kane. He doesn’t want it. Whatever”—I hesitate before using the word—“power we experienced was not the magic we’re used to. It felt—”
“Good?” Deryn smiles. “It felt good, Lark.”
“Yeah.” I return their smile. “It did, but it wasn’t like the magic I’m used to—I gave all my pain to the monster. According to Nova’s teachings, I should need more pain to recharge my powers, but whatever I felt during the ritual didn’t come from my body, my flesh. It came from inside? Somewhere deep. Less like I was flexing a muscle and more like I was experiencing an emotion. Grief and anger. Peace.”
“I felt that too,” they say quickly, as if the feelings might escape. “I didn’t really know what to do with it, though. It sort of flowed through me, and I let it.”
I nod, catching Calvin’s eye across the way. I want to talk to him again before we leave, want to plan our date. But not before sewing this up with Deryn. I’m giving this siblings thing a better try.
“I think, maybe, we’ve been doing magic wrong—especially by limiting it to those of us Nova deemed worthy. Once we’re more settled in—after the trial—I want to try a few new things. Get a feel for it. If I can figure it out, I’d like to teach you. That is, if you want to learn.”
“Absolutely,” they say eagerly, then bite their lip. “I mean, that would be cool. I’ve always wanted to learn.”
“Good.” I smile and rest my hand on their shoulder. Deryn does the same in return and the same new feeling flows between us. An even exchange.
33
CALVIN / MUCH LATER
Lark walks with me into the convention center. The ConCom wasn’t happy that I reneged on my panels and the cosplay ball, but offered me the chance to make it up to them at their sister event in DC. If I brought Lark.
I think they wanted him to dress up. He didn’t want to, but he still looks like an Elven-king, even in jeans and a tee shirt. Another one of mine; this one says:
You have
My sword&
My bow&
My axe.
No arsenal strapped to his back or leather harness to hold his potions and supplies, but damn if he doesn’t look beautiful. His hair hangs long over his shoulders, golden and shiny, a slight wave taking hold in the strands now that they’re not woven into place.
He flips all of it over the left side of his head, constantly changing the part and playing with it now that he can. “People are looking at us,” he says quietly, and he’s right. Usually, they’re only looking at me, but I’m happy to share the spotlight.
Except for our clothes, we look almost the same. Of course, I’m wearing Thranduil’s wig. His long shimmering robe and crown. “They are,” I say. “But we don’t have to stop for them. Want to walk the floor?” I nod at the rows of vendors.
“Sure,” Lark says, moving toward a booth that’s enclosed by tall metal racks. Clothes emblazoned with fan art and humor hang from them. He finds his exact shirt and points to it with a smile. Says, “It’s a shame they don’t allow weapons inside. Would’ve made my outfit.”
I’m about to tell him it’s for everyone’s safety when he gasps and dashes to another stall. He’s found a hoodie with a dozen pockets, inside and out. Lark holds it in front of him, admiring its utility and warmth.
“Isn’t this what you call dressing up? Cosplay.”
I nearly choke when I see what the sweatshirt says on the back. “Cosplay handler, huh?”
“Someone needs to support you.” He tries it on, stuffing his hands into the front pocket.
I step closer and slide my hands into the same pocket, clasping his. “We’re in the outside world now, Lark. Do you think you can handle me without magic?”
He bites his lip. Closes his eyes. Kisses me right in the middle of this vendor’s booth while I’m dressed like the Elvenking. My hands warm in his. Tingle. A feeling that’s born where we touch and spreads through my body like stepping into a heated building from the snow.
He pulls back, and I watch him take the hoodie to the counter and pay, using his new bank card with the assistance of the vendor. They’re patient with him—everyone here knows who Lark is. He thanks the person, then walks off, looking over his shoulder as if to say, “Catch me if you can.”
I hurry along after him, chasing whatever he just did to me. Whatever feeling. Desire, care, lust, love—I can’t put my finger on it. “Lark!” I call, looking for him. He has a cell phone now but is terrible at using it. If I lose him, it could take hours to find him, for him to find his way back to me, the car, his new home. He, Kane, and Deryn moved into one of the houses in Woodberry; apparently, there’s a park nearby where people walk their dogs. And now that Druid Hill is a park again, the surrounding neighborhoods are flourishing.
I stand still. Straighten up as tall as I can manage. I’m easy to spot on the convention floor because of the number of people who s
top and ask to take my picture. I don’t answer them, turning in place. Looking, my heart beating faster and faster until—
He stands square across from me, a single hand pressed against his lips. I tilt my head and the people around us blur as if I’m looking through a lens focused only on Lark. Then, he blows me a kiss, and I feel it. I feel a breeze where there should be none. The lights in the convention center dim and I light up. People gasp as my robes flutter and move, as if taken by a wind machine. They sparkle under the unnatural bubbles of light that swirl around me.
Cameras raise into the air as dozens of people rush to film the event and, like that, it stops. The overhead lights flicker on and the air around me stills. My costume falls back into place. Through the rush of people, I glimpse Lark smiling. He winks, watching as I lap up the attention.
“Is there some kind of rig—”
“Was it planned with the—”
“Can I—”
“How did you do that?”
The answer is that I didn’t. I took a chance on my wildest dreams, chased Lark’s magic, and discovered it was cruel and harmful. That I wanted so badly for it to be real, that I enabled him, hurt him. Ignored Lilian and almost got Kane killed. Lark says he gave all his magic up during the fight. That he left it on the road, and that he wasn’t willing to hurt himself to see if it would come back to him. But as I hold his eyes across the crowd, I can tell he’s found a new magic. Something that lives inside him. Something that doesn’t hurt.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Second books are weird. Like Meadowlark, I had help and support on this quest, even though it often felt like I was pushing ahead on my own. My deepest thanks to those who supported me with their words and love, time and energy.
To the places that opened their doors to me. To the Enoch Pratt Library’s Central Branch, for its beautiful ceilings and long wooden writing tables. To The Bun Shop for spicy hot cocoa and being open until 3:00 a.m. Not to my apartment building, which inspired Feelings about walk-ups.
To the friends who kept me company. To Suzanne, who is a huge Tolkien nerd. To Aleksandra, who is a prolific reader. To Faith, who always encourages me to write my id. To Marianne, for her vibrancy. To Alyssa, for you-know-what. To Sarah, my coconspirator.
To those who make me whole. To my family for their unconditional love. To my friends, for their lights in even the darkest times. To the experienced authors who were welcoming and honest. To my communities, for reminding me I am not writing into the void.
To those who had their hands all over this thing. To my agent, Jennifer Udden, for her smarts and reassurance. To the whole New Leaf Literary crew for their insight. To my editor, Carl Engle-Laird, who never told me this novel was too horny. To the wonderful folks at Tordotcom Publishing, without whom this book wouldn’t exist: Oliver Dougherty, Mordicai Knode, Lauren Anesta, Amanda Melfi, Jamie Stafford-Hill, Christine Foltzer, Melanie Sanders, and Irene Gallo.
To the stories that inspired this one—but mostly to the transformative works and communities surrounding them. To Drarry but not to JKR. To Aragon/Legolas and long-haired blond mean Daddy Thranduil but not to JRRT. Thank you.
ALSO BY K. M. SZPARA
Docile
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hugo and Nebula finalist K. M. SZPARA is a queer and trans author who lives in Baltimore, Maryland. His debut novel is Docile; his short fiction and essays appear in Uncanny, Lightspeed, Strange Horizons, and more. Szpara has a master of theological studies from Harvard Divinity School, which he totally uses at his day job as a paralegal.
You can find him on the internet at kmszpara.com and on Twitter at @kmszpara, or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1: Lark / Now
Chapter 2: Lark / Now
Chapter 3: Deryn / Now
Chapter 4: Kane / Confidential
Chapter 5: Lark / Now
Chapter 6: Lark / Now
Chapter 7: Kane / Confidential
Chapter 8: Calvin / Now
Chapter 9: Calvin / Now
Chapter 10: Lark / Now
Chapter 11: Kane / Confidential
Chapter 12: Calvin / Now
Chapter 13: Lark / Now
Chapter 14: Deryn / Now
Chapter 15: Calvin / Now
Chapter 16: Kane / Confidential
Chapter 17: Lark / Now
Chapter 18: Calvin / Now
Chapter 19: Deryn / Now
Chapter 20: Lark / Now
Chapter 21: Kane / Confidential
Chapter 22: Calvin / Now
Chapter 23: Lark / Now
Chapter 24: Kane / Confidential
Chapter 25: Deryn / Now
Chapter 26: Calvin / Now
Chapter 27: Lark / Now
Chapter 28: Kane / Confidential
Chapter 29: Lark / Now
Chapter 30: Calvin / Now
Chapter 31: Lark / Now
Chapter 32: Lark / Later
Chapter 33: Calvin / Much Later
Acknowledgments
Also by K. M. Szpara
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
FIRST, BECOME ASHES
Copyright © 2021 by Kellan Szpara
All rights reserved.
Edited by Carl Engle-Laird
Cover design by Jamie Stafford-Hill
Cover photograph of meadowlark by Frode Jacobsen/Shutterstock.com
A Tordotcom Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
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New York, NY 10271
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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-21618-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-21617-5 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250216175
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First Edition: 2021
